


Bergamot & Lavender

by cowboykaiju



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: 1800s baronetage au, F/F, but only if charlotte bronte watched portrait of a lady on fire before writing jane eyre, everyone except dorothea is unfortunately english, i will not pretend i didn't read jane eyre & persuasion and then go absolutely hog wild, jane eyre au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:01:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23608807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cowboykaiju/pseuds/cowboykaiju
Summary: Dorothea, employed as the new governess of the Blaiddyd Manor, finds herself immersed in a whirlwind of nobility, portraiture, and terrifyingly squeaky doors.
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault/Edelgard von Hresvelg
Comments: 4
Kudos: 46





	Bergamot & Lavender

_Dear Ms. Arnault,_

_We are glad to have received the testimonial of one Manuela Casagranda and have thereby decided to hire you for the coming years. We shall provide food, lodging, and supplies for your day-to-day operations, so long as you may train and teach our youngest. Come at once._

_Regards,_

_Sir Lambert E. Blaiddyd, Bt._

The Blaiddyd Manor is luminous in all meanings of the word: it is visually harsh with its tall spires and barred windows, but shares a glow that is dangerously inviting to any onlooker. Dorothea herself cannot stop her slender fingers from shaking around the letter in her hands as she double-checks, triple-checks, and quadruple-checks the address. Yet, there is no house within a five-mile radius to mistake it with.

It sits alone atop a hill - like all good houses at the beginning of the horror stories Dorothea liked to read back in America. The brick of the house calls to Dorothea from a different era, perhaps a full century earlier, and the chipped edges of the balcony above only affirm that suspicion. This is not to say the house is run-down by any means, but it does not seem to have been kept as well as the architect would have liked.

Even the landscaping tells her to turn away and take the next carriage into Bath. Rose bushes that have not taken the changing of seasons well and vines that have overgrown their planter box and spill out onto yellow grass. Being prone to a deep petrifying fear, it takes everything in Dorothea to steady her breathing.

She ascends the cracked steps that lead to looming mahogany double-doors. Two knocks, and a breath of heart-pounding silence. The door does not creek open and reveal an eldritch house of horrors like Dorothea expects; it swings open upon a friendly face.

“Ah, you must be Miss Arnault!” A taller woman, blonde and rosy-cheeked, greets. Her welcoming smile and matronly aura are at so deep a contrast with the manor’s architecture that Dorothea briefly thinks that this woman, even more than Dorothea herself, has become employed at the wrong place.

“Yes! I regret to say I do not know your name, however,” Dorothea, despite the fear that lingers in the forefront of her brain, returns her sunny attitude.

The woman waves her hand dismissively, “Mercedes Von Martritz; I’m the housekeeper of the estate.” Then, Mercedes is quickly ushering her into the house and continuing, “So sorry Lord Blaiddyd isn’t here to receive you. In truth, he’s rarely on the property.”

Immediately upon crossing the threshold is the parlor, which is tastefully furnished with sofas of ornate design and walls decorated with detailed portraiture. Her eyes linger a bit too long, drawn to their sullen looks and the expensive oils that make up the equally expensive silks they are dressed in. There is not a single person pictured that does not seem to be of a gloomy persuasion.

“Oh? Where might he usually spend his time - if I am not overstepping.” Dorothea asks half-heartedly - her eyes do not move away from the final portrait in the series. A boy, or perhaps a man who has just reached adulthood, with the deepest blue eyes that hold the most forlorn vacancy. Dorothea has never seen sadder eyes in all her time serving the baronetage.

Mercedes mulls over the question a moment, “His business calls him elsewhere, I suppose.” She finally settles on, “I see you’re admiring the family.”

Dorothea laughs nervously and looks to Mercedes now, just a bit sheepish, “I’m almost in awe of them,”

“They are all quite beautifully captured, hm? The Lady Hresvelg is quite the painter.”

Dorothea hadn’t been aware of a Lady Hresvelg in the manor, though it is not relevant to her job anyhow. She does not push that matter.

“Come, I have much to show you, much to explain, and much to do today!” Mercedes has turned on her heels and begun into the house with Dorothea in tow.

The layout of the manor is far less imposing when given as patient a guide as Mercedes. Dorothea is not permitted into half of the rooms upstairs, which is truly a blessing because she is not even sure how to differentiate the office from the study. She meets other servants as well, who are all quite curt with occupation. Cooks and maids and all else you could fit into a mansion; the Blaiddyd Estate is an entire production in itself.

Mercedes drops her off at the servant’s quarters with the promise to pick her back up in an hour’s time to begin her first lesson with the young girl she will be teaching. Dorothea is thankful for this moment of repose in the servant’s quarters, where she is acquainted with her bed and the small sectioning of the closet to hang her best dresses. 

Within the hour, Mercedes fetches Dorothea and leads her to a room tucked into the corner of the estate with a small clay lion molded into it as a door plate. She knocks once against the door, and twice - much firmer the second time - when there is no response.

“Lady Marjorie, the new governess is here.” She announces through the door.

“The Lady has died tragically and cannot escape the dirt of the earth she is buried under!” A small voice cries out.

Mercedes looks to Dorothea and rolls her eyes. “We are coming in,”

She opens the door, revealing Marjorie Blaiddyd laying in the window nook of her room. Her blonde hair is curled in ringlets with two blue bows juxtaposed at either side of her head, yet she remains in her pajamas. She pouts at them.

“Can you speak French?” Lady Blaiddyd grumbles.

“French, Spanish, and English,” Dorothea affirms.

“Hmmph. Can you play the piano?”

“Better than I can speak Spanish and French.”

“The last governess couldn’t play. She lied about being able to play.” She rises from her nook, approaching Dorothea at three-quarters her height.

“Now, Lady Marjorie, you play nice.” Mercedes turns to Dorothea, “Good luck, Miss Arnault.”

Mercedes leaves Dorothea to the young lion staring her down. Despite her untamed temper, the two are practicing French verb conjugations within twenty minutes. She is not immune to the subtle American charms Dorothea is in possession of. And of sweet bribery.

“Kindest Marjorie, won’t you allow the French a moment of rest?” Dorothea asks as the day grows late and Lady Marjorie does not seem to tire.

She huffs, “I feel as if I have not reached my potential for today, Miss Arnault.”

“You have years and years to reach your potential; you will not become fluent in French in a single lesson.” Dorothea pleads.

Lady Marjorie stares down at the quill in front of her with a frustrated sigh. “I wish to learn French, and then Mandarin Chinese. I would make an excellent dignitary; I already know German. But I cannot learn Mandarin without learning French first.”

“And who would teach you Mandarin, Lady Marjorie?”

She thinks on this for a moment. “I would need a new governess, perhaps. Or maybe Seteth could help, he’s quite worldly.” She turns to Dorothea with childlike vigor and a grin (sans her two canine teeth), “We could learn mandarin _together_ , Dorothea!”

Dorothea smiles at her sweetly, “Perhaps we could. But French first! You mustn't forget the French. Maybe even Spanish afterward, before Mandarin, if you ever wanted to visit the wonders of Rome or Madrid.” Dorothea says this purely out of the interest of keeping hold of her job a bit longer. She would hate to be replaced so soon because she did not know as difficult a language as Mandarin.

Lady Marjorie grins, “I would like to see Rome someday. French, then Spanish, then Mandarin, then I will have the world in my hand.”

“Don’t forget your math.”

She huffs in annoyance.

When Marjorie finally whines about the heaviness of her eyelids, Dorothea is relieved of her duties. She leaves her room quietly and with a soft good night to the half-asleep ten-year-old. On her pilgrimage to the servants quarters to lay herself to rest, however, she crosses paths with the young Blaiddyd man from the portrait. She stops just short of bumping into him, always cautious in her surroundings.

“The new governess, I take it?” He asks. It retains the politeness of a greeting, though Dorothea may have preferred a _good evening_. Typical of nobility, she thought.

“Yes, and you must be Mr. Blaiddyd,” His hair is longer than in the portrait and fairly unkempt - but his eyes share the same vacancy as were captured in the portrait. A swirl of sapphire, ultramarine, navy that seems to amount to nothing but solemnity. His sword is firmly holstered, and he wears the training garb of a young man fit for combat. He must have just finished a training session outback, though she cannot imagine the practicality of a sword in battle nowadays. But the wealthy have never been fond of practicality.

He scoffs, “Please, just Dimitri. I have earned no title or address.”

Dorothea is caught off guard, “Of course… Dimitri.” She says cautiously, still afraid to be smitten by whoever runs the baronetage.

He gives her a shallow bow and a good night, of which she returns gracefully. They get but four steps away from each other before Dimitri turns back around to call her.

“Oh! Miss Arnault!” Dorothea turns to him. “You’ve just finished with Marjorie, haven’t you?”

“I have,” She answers slowly in fear of a verbal lashing for whatever misstep she had been unaware of.

“Do not forget to eat. I know she is quite the energy leech! Dedue has made a pheasant supper that I am sure is still warm.” He gives her a smile and a thumbs-up, but his eyes retain the same underlying coldness.

Dorothea laughs in relief, “I will certainly, thank you very much, Dimitri!”

She does just that: she follows the long hallway that leads to the servants quarters and takes an early right towards the kitchen. Inside, Dedue and Annette crowd a bowl on the countertop.

“Hello,” Dorothea quietly asserts her presence.

They both look up guiltily. Annette has a large wooden spoon tucked into the pocket of her cheek, and there’s a golden dollop of batter upon Dedue’s fingertip, centimeters from his mouth.

“Hi,” Annette is muffled by the spoon around her mouth.

“We were just,” Dedue looks down at the batter and back up at Dorothea, “Finishing up some cupcakes.”

Dorothea grins, “May I have a taste, at least?”

Dedue and Annette breathe a collective sigh of relief and make room in their countertop huddle for Dorothea.

“We don’t plan on baking these,” Annette admits to Dorothea. “I jus’ had a hankering for batter. Please do not tell Mercedes.”

“Completely understandable - I would never.” Dorothea places her right hand over her heart.

Annette seems pleased with this and gives Dorothea her own spoon to eat batter with.

“So, new governess? Pretty hoity, yeah?”

Dorothea snorts out a laugh, “Not sure if that’s quite the word,”

“Hoity-er than being cooped in the kitchen all day, I’ll tell you that.”

Dorothea hums in response. She couldn't tell a quail egg from a chicken egg, and would not survive a day in the kitchen of nobility. “This is really good!” Dorothea enthuses, in her first unpolished and uncensored moment in the estate.

“It has saffron,” Dedue tells her.

“If anyone found out we used the saffron for unbaked cupcakes for _ourselves_ , we would be lynched.” Annette grins like a schoolgirl sharing a sin.

“We’ll call it class reparations,” Dorothea responds cheekily.

Annette giggles into another spoonful of saffron batter.

In the next week, Dorothea receives no issue with the young Marjorie, Dimitri, or the rumored Lord Lambert Blaiddyd. Her schedule is fairly simple: she teaches Marjorie Monday through Friday, each day focusing on a different core subject (maths, language, literature, history, and music), and is allowed Saturday and Sunday to have leisure time when she is not needed elsewhere. She hopes desperately she is not needed elsewhere, not from her own sloth, but just in the exhaustion of a new country with new nobles.

She becomes well-acquainted with other waitstaff in this time as well. Dedue, Mercedes, Ignatz, and Annette share a book club that she was quite graciously invited to, but had to decline for her own busy schedule teaching Marjorie. There is one staff member that everyone keeps referencing, but Dorothea has yet to see him and is too afraid to ask about. Hubert Vestra is added to the list of things in this house that she is afraid of. The list now appears as follows:

  1. The third floor
  2. Lord Blaiddyd
  3. Hubert Vestra



The third floor is its own horror story entirely. There are only two rooms there, both of which Dorothea has been explicitly forbidden from entering. The second floor carries the instruction of ‘enter only when expressly permitted’, and that is where the most sensitive information regarding the family is kept, along with their own rooms. She cannot fathom to think about what could be on the third floor that would garner such secrecy. Even amongst the innumerous studies and libraries and offices on the second floor, there is not a single purpose for a room that could exist on the third floor that does not already exist on the second.

These mysteries do not even account for the Lady Hresvelg, who the servants mention only in hushed whispers.

Yet, the week goes on without issue, which is a true blessing.

“Dot, could you go to town and pick the kitchen up some supplies. I just got the full list from Dedue.” Mercedes asks her that very Saturday, which she has very quickly realized will never truly be a leisure day.

“Of course,” She says, instead of _please, allow me a moment of rest_. Especially on as cloudy a day as this, she would love to curl up against a window and read for the remainder of it.

It takes mere moments to gather the necessities of a trip to town: more practical pair of outdoor shoes, a small bag of coinage, and a nice kerchief she bought for very little at a haberdashery back in America. She’s halfway across the front yard towards the carriage when an otherwise smooth trip to town is entirely disrupted and ruined. A voice calls to her: “Hold!”

Dorothea stops, obediently. She looks behind her to find a woman jogging out to meet her.

“You are going to town, yes?” She isn’t anyone that Dorothea has seen around the manor. Her hair isn’t blonde and curled like any of the Blaiddyd’s, nor are her eyes a cold, impersonal blue. Her hair is a shade of light brown with grey streaks in it - despite not looking a day older than Dorothea herself - and is kept in a messy ponytail that has flyaways and strands sticking out. And her eyes: a similarly sweet brown that radiates warmth and exhaustion.

“I am going to the markets for some produce,” Dorothea responds after a moment of shock at an entirely new face.

“Great, as am I. Would you mind if we rode in together?” She’s wearing a man’s loose bishop-sleeved undershirt half-tucked into a pair of slacks and boots. She looks only partially put-together, but no less beautiful than any other noblewoman at a ball.

Dorothea swallows hard; she had met women like this back in Massachusetts, and a dance with them was a dance with God himself. “After you, Lady…” Dorothea hesitates a moment.

“Edelgard,” and after another moment, “von Hresvelg.”

“Of course. After you, Lady Edelgard.”

She obliges Dorothea and climbs into the carriage, sliding as far left as she can manage. Dorothea, careful not to get her dress caught on the steps, ascends as well. She takes her seat next to the elusive Lady Edelgard. Dorothea mumbles a direction to the carriage’s driver, and just before the horses can reach a light gallop, a bellowing shout comes from the house.

Lady Edelgard and Dorothea both whip their heads to watch out the window as a man comes running out after them waving a black kerchief.

“Lady Edelgard! Stop the carriage!”

The driver pulls on the reins with annoyance. The door to the carriage swings open to reveal a man that makes Dorothea think that, yes, this is the exact man who should live in their horrifyingly gothic manor.

“You cannot just leave the estate! Least of all without me!” He fumes. His black cloak billows with the wind, which has picked up considerably since his entrance.

“Well? Then climb in.” Lady Edelgard responds, unbothered.

The man stands there a moment more, breathing heavily and clenching his fists in frustration. He takes a deep breath to compose himself and climb in next to Dorothea. She is stiff as a board between him and Lady Edelgard, both their shoulders pressed tightly against hers.

“You’re hardly even dressed, you know.” He grumbles. He runs a gloved hand through his hair so it no longer flops in front of his right eye.

“I’m dressed enough,” She responds, equally grumpy now, “It’s just a trip to the marketplace anyways, Hubert. Who’s going to draw their sword upon me in front of the orange farmer?”

“Me, for one,” He huffs, and immediately backtracks, “I jest; I would never wish or do harm unto you, Lady Edelgard.”

Dorothea wishes more than ever she was in a little reading nook with the new Currer Bell novel and a cup of tea - perhaps a sweet apple blend.

Lady Edelgard ignores Hubert, turning instead to Dorothea, “I’m so sorry, miss, I did not ask your name.”

“Dorothea Arnault. I’m the new governess.” Dorothea tells her, smiling pleasantly despite her deep discomfort.

“Ah, I hadn’t realized they were hiring a new governess. How odd.”

The impartial and othering ‘they’ is not lost on Dorothea. She stares down at her fingers interlaced on her lap. Edelgard, in turn, stares out the window to her left. Hubert stares straight ahead, still clearly incensed.

It’s half an hour’s journey to town, of which were silent and grueling for Dorothea. It has begun to rain since they left the estate, and this does nothing to ease Dorothea’s building tension. She shouldn’t have been so foolish as to forget an umbrella, especially with the building clouds in the distance and the already moody weather of Bath.

Upon arrival, Hubert exits the carriage first, being closest to the door. Despite standing beside the door, he does not extend a hand to assist Dorothea down the steps. She dismounts from the carriage onto muddy soil that soddens her nice flats and will certainly color the trim of her best Sunday dress. She contains her displeasure as Hubert offers his hand to Lady Edelgard.

When Hubert takes out his own umbrella and holds it only over he and Lady Edelgard, Dorothea feels herself sink into even lower spirits. She trails behind them further into the city towards the markets. There will be no class solidarity between her and Hubert as she has found with the other house servants.

Lady Edelgard glances over her shoulder once at Dorothea, who must look as miserable as she feels, already soaked to her bones and shivering. She turns back around to face forward and mutters something unintelligible to Hubert. In a moment, Lady Edelgard has taken possession of the umbrella and is turning to Dorothea. Wordlessly, she outstretches the umbrella over her.

“You don’t have to -”

“Of course I don’t have to.” She cuts her off.

Lady Edelgard herself is a respectable distance from Dorothea, which results in only half of Edelgard’s body receiving the cover of the umbrella. The rain hits her shirt, clings white cotton against skin and reveals the soft peach colors underneath.

It’s a kindness far beyond what Dorothea could have expected.

Hubert is stranded in the rain, having changed his own marching order to glower behind the two women. Dorothea would laugh about this image later that night, but for now, she remains composed and courteous.

The marketplace has been prepared to brave the elements and is housed underneath a large wooden canopy to prevent the destruction of goods and the illness of vendors. Even on days like this, the people can safely sell their loaves of bread with only the fear of catching a cough.

“What is your shopping list, Miss Arnault?” Lady Edelgard asks once under the cover of the marketplace. She collapses her umbrella and holds it by the handle to the side, where Hubert instinctually - and still quite grumpily - takes it from her.

Dorothea pulls out a small list of water-smeared ink and sighs, “I believe it was mostly spices.” The more she tries to read it, the more it looks like something coded in latin, which was certainly her least favorite subject at school.

“How unfortunate,” Edelgard says in regards to the shopping list. “Well, we shall see the spices, at least.”

Dorothea feels a sense of shame walking among the commonwealth as something more - even if just a governess. She feels almost like she’s flaunting something she doesn’t have, walking past them with Edelgard and Hubert in tow. Even while buying spices, the weight of her money is almost too much to bear in front of them.

“Ah! Would you like a coffee, Miss Arnault.” Lady Edelgard offers when they cross a beverage vendor on their way across the market.

“Oh, no thank you, I would rather not squander the shopping money on something as expensive as coffee,” Dorothea says as graciously as possible.

“My treat,” Edelgard responds simply.

“No, really-”

But Edelgard is already ordering them three cups of coffee at an exorbitant price that almost makes Dorothea gag.

But, oh how the warmth of the coffee radiates through its cup onto her fingertips! And upon even the smallest of sips, it sends a heat through her that affects her body like a wonderful illness and boosts her temperature by at least five degrees. “Thank you,” She whispers to Edelgard just above the noise of the marketplace crowd.

“I hope you do not mind if we look at some paints before we go. I have run out of blues.” Lady Edelgard’s free hand motions across the marketplace towards a vendor with small portraits stacked on her table, tented to avoid bleeding colors even in the shelter of the plaza. In front of her is an array of oils and pastels of varying and unarranged colors.

“Of course, Lady Edelgard,”

Hubert, by now, has lost his spirits entirely. He shivers like a pathetic chihuahua in the snow, and his well-groomed hair has become stringy and hangs over his eyes like a sheepdog. Dorothea is inclined to take pity on him, but resists that temptation. It’s _very_ funny.

Lady Edelgard spends far too long looking at blues. There are at least thirty shades of blue, though Dorothea would be hard-pressed to tell them apart from one another.

“But which one captures the moodiness of the cliffside waves smacking against the shore, Miss Arnault?”

“Uh,” Dorothea breathes out. Lady Edelgard is holding four blues of just barely differing shades up to her cheeks as if it would help compare colors. 

She huffs in frustration at Dorothea’s confusion, squeezing her eyes closed.

“Okay: the revenant Lord Bergliez has commissioned me a painting of their second-born son, Caspar Von Bergliez. Caspar, as I have seen him, is a rowdy young man with nothing on his mind but brawling. The blue of his eyes _must_ capture the level of mischief he is capable of causing, along with the turmoil of a second-born son.” She once again raises the four blues expectantly, “If that is any help to you,”

Dorothea thinks on this a moment, genuinely tries to provide something insightful and helpful, “Only one blue?”

The edges of Lady Edelgard’s mouth twitch down in a frown. She opens her mouth to respond and then closes it.

“I think the cerulean quite matches Lord Caspar’s eyes,” Hubert speaks up.

“No, no, Hubert, Miss Arnault is right.” Edelgard waves him off, not taking her eyes off from Dorothea.

“I’m right?” Dorothea asks, not even aware she had expressed a true opinion.

“Oh, of course, you are,” Lady Edelgard gives her just the slightest bow of thankfulness. She drops half of the coins from her pockets on the table of the shopkeep (of which Dorothea still has so little a grasp on the pound system here that she cannot say how much money Lady Edelgard has just spent on oils at _her_ advice). “I can’t capture what I want with only one blue; I will buy all four and see where it takes me!”

“Lady Edelgard - that is far too much to spend on oils!” Hubert protests in an outrage.

Lady Edelgard pretends not to hear him and shoves the four oils into the front pocket of her trousers once the merchant has counted her change. When Hubert does look to Dorothea, it is with a look of pure and total hatred.

“Shall we leave?”

The trip home is tense. Dorothea holds her small bag of spices, avoiding the gaze of anyone else in the carriage. Edelgard makes a comment on the rain finally letting up, and Dorothea winces to think of Hubert fully soaked in the freezing autumn air. Perhaps now is her time to feel bad for him, or perhaps she is just worried that he detests her - which he certainly does now.

Hubert had been sure to squeeze himself between Dorothea and Lady Edelgard as they boarded the carriage, and this means Dorothea is first out of the carriage when they arrive back at the manor. Her flats sink sickeningly into the mud of the driveway, but now she at least has the good sense to hold up her nice dress to keep it from being soiled any further.

Hubert and Lady Edelgard dismount without issue. The rain has now ceased entirely, which only gives Dorothea affirmation that all of the inner-workings of Bath are actively fighting against her.

“Thank you very much for the company, Miss Arnault,” Lady Edelgard tells her softly as they pass over the threshold of the Blaiddyd manor.

Dorothea slips out of her muddy flats and carries them by hand, “Same to you, Lady Edelgard.”

Dorothea turns down the hallway towards the kitchen to deliver her shopping whilst Edelgard and Hubert sort out their muddied clothing situation at the door.

Immediately upon handing the groceries to Mercedes, she is fuming. Already, her hair is sticking up and a bright red flush is dusted on her cheeks as if she had just finished yelling at another subordinate.

“This… These are the groceries I sent you for?” Mercedes asks slowly upon peering into the satchel of spices.

“I - yes, I believe so.” Dorothea responds nervously.

Mercedes squeezes her eyes shut and Dorothea braces herself for whatever is coming. “Where is the fish? And the oranges? Dorothea, you cannot expect us to make a meal out of goddamn paprika, can you?” Her voice raises to a shout, and she slams the bag against the table.

“I’m sorry!” Dorothea feels as if all the shock and fear of being in a new country with a new noble family and a new creaky old home has all caught up to her in this moment. An emotional turmoil that she hadn’t even realized was boiling was just beginning to overflow. “The - the ink had smeared and I had made the mistake of not checking the list before braving the marketplace and I -”

Mercedes only seems to be fume further. She pinches the bridge of her nose, squeezes her eyes shut, takes a deep breath, and just before she can continue berating Dorothea, Edelgard steps into the kitchen.

The tension in the kitchen immediately increases tenfold. Dedue, from the oven, freezes halfway through pulling out a pheasant roast. Annette stares from the countertop where she kneads a lump of dough. Mercedes herself drops her arms and her face seems frozen between immense anger and her usual courteous housekeeper demeanor.

“So sorry to step in,” Edelgard speaks with the poise and delicacy of a woman who understands the fear she strikes into those nearby, “I thought I heard a commotion.”

“Lady Edelgard, my apologies you had to hear that. I was just chastising Miss Arnault for forgetting the fish for our dinner tomorrow night.” Mercedes bows her head.

“Ah, I see. Well, in that case, I should be taking the blame; her folly is mine. I accompanied Miss Arnault to the marketplace in Bath, and it was I who did not provide Dorothea the proper care to ensure her list’s survival in the rain.” Edelgard raises a singular eyebrow, “So if you would prefer to berate me in the kitchen, you may.”

Mercedes adamantly shakes her head and forces out a laugh, “Of course not, Lady Edelgard! I’m so sorry for the misunderstanding.”

“I am not the one you should be apologizing to, I think.” Edelgard motions to Dorothea, who is absolutely burnt with embarrassment.

With a left eye twitch, Mercedes bows her head to Dorothea in what could be the most humiliating moment in either of their short-lived lives, “I am sorry for the misunderstanding, Miss Arnault.”

Edelgard nods, satisfyingly. “Fantastic. I will send Hubert back to Bath tomorrow morning to fetch whatever Miss Arnault and I failed to provide.” She turns to Dorothea, smiling slyly and betraying a far more insidious intent with this encounter, “Good day, Miss Arnault.”

Dorothea whimpers out a pathetic, “Good day,” and cannot look at Lady Edelgard as she turns and walks back out into the manor.

Dorothea’s eyes sweep the kitchen. Dedue and Annette now openly gawk, and Ignatz pops up from where he stayed crouched in front of the pot cupboard.

“Wow,” Ignatz breathes out, and it feels like a child puffing hot breath onto the icy glass of a shop window to defrost a small spot. Mercedes has not been comforted in the slightest, and now stares down at Dorothea with a fervor.

“I’m quite sorry -” Dorothea starts, but Mercedes lifts her hand to cut her off.

“Go to bed, Miss Arnault,”

Dorothea, as if brought back into the halls of Plumfield Academy, obeys. She turns around and scurries to the servant’s quarters. She squints and squeezes her eyes and tilts her head up to stop tears from spilling over before she can reach the safety of her shared bed space. She kicks her flats off at the threshold of the room clumsily, nearly tripping over herself when she accidentally digs a toe into the stocking at her ankle. In a fit of that same childish rage she felt often at Plumfield, Dorothea collapses into her bed and pulls the covers up entirely. She could not be bothered to worry about her dress or the state of her stockings.

She is really and truly humiliated. Lady Edelgard could not be so out of touch to realize the ramifications of her actions. To have let Dorothea be berated and brought to tears would be a kinder fate than to appear as the house pet for the manor’s most feared noble.

In a moment of horror, Dorothea sees herself as she was all her childhood. Alone and cold, lashes on her hands and forearms from her instructors, buried in her bed after a terrible day of schooling. Still, she allows herself to wallow like this as a small comfort. Bitter nostalgia rises in her throat like bile - bile as well briefly rises when she feels herself too deep in self-pity.

She, as calmly as she can, sits back up and disrobes. She hangs her nice Sunday dress and lethargically pulls on the only nightgown she could afford to bring with her. It is just barely seven in the evening now, which is finally late enough to truly go to bed.

As Dorothea lay in scratchy sheets and the thinnest mattress she has ever felt, she thinks of Lady Edelgard - of how angry she had made Mercedes and how sweetly she had held the umbrella over her even if a bit late to truly save her from a terrible cough or a ruined shopping list. Dorothea, now having drained her energy in a tantrum unbecoming of the governess of the Blaiddyd Manor, falls into a deep slumber of ceruleans and teals and cobalts.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! leave me some feedback in the comments, or on my twitter(@cowboykaiju) or Tumblr (@kingkroool)  
> i don't know if you can tell but i took a 19 century lit class last semester and now i don't know how to act.


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